Disclaimer: Alas, she is not mine.


Thou sister to the serving-beasts of man,
Who, born to franchise and untroubled grace
In thy world's quadrupedally primate race,
Livest and lovest as a free wight can,
It was not when thy wings achieved their span
(Grand as it was) that thou gained royal place;
Highness was thine no grounding could efface
The day that thy adventures first began.

So, in each world where minds are found, we see
Princesses' souls go veiled in commons' frames,
And they who toil at mundane ministry
Robed in the purple of grave, sweet purity
Know not what styles might justly grace their names.
Light be our hearts who fain would lift them high:
Each time thou, Princess, spread'st thy wings, they fly.